


Farce of July, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-11
Updated: 2009-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-15 11:08:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14789378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Fourth of July dinner party hosted by the Bartletts. Foolish fun for the sake of it; no timeline or particular episode reference. Eventual pairings, I think, CJ/Danny Will/Kate Donna/Josh.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

  
Author's notes: A/N: I have no idea where this is going, really. But  
sonofabitch. It's fun to write.  
  
Location: No idea. Somewhere fancy.  


* * *

(On the second floor balcony. Early evening.)

Danny: Hey.

Will: Hey.

Danny: What’s up?

Will: Really, just another typical evening of Josh and CJ   
making asses out of themselves.

Danny: And don’t we love them for it?

Will: Questionably. When you consider who 'we' includes.   
But, yes. I think that is the general consensus.

Danny: GENERAL consensus. Of course, throw a podium   
and some cameras into that mix and it's a whole new ball   
game.

Will: I hear that.

Danny: Hm. Well. Not that you aren’t always an engaging   
conversationalist, Mr. Bailey — And you know I’ve got   
some questions for you about the VP's cobb salad dinner   
date fiasco — But would you mind pointing me in the   
direction of said lunatic staff members?

Will: I’m sorry, how exactly did you get into this party,   
again? I don’t mean to — you know — I just thought...I   
was told that this was...a private...function.

Danny: You were told correctly.

Will: Has the term private been recently modified to   
include scrutiny by the press, or...?

Danny: Nope. No press allowed.

Will: Then, if you don’t mind me repeating a blunt and   
potentially awkward question — How did you get in here?

Danny: I’m charming and adorable, and the woman at the   
door has a major thing for guys with beards.

Will: Seriously?

Danny: No. I talked to Leo — he said I was invited as long   
as I kept the notebook at home.

Will: So, all of this is off the record?

Danny: Are you kidding? And tempt the wrath of the high   
thing on top of the...okay, I don’t know the phrase, but   
the answer is yes. Off the record. Now — what is it that   
CJ   
and Josh have going?

Will: A bet.

Danny: A bet? What kind of a bet?

Will: An idiotic one.

Danny: No doubt.

Will: More like a competition, actually, that involves a bet.

Danny: What?

Will: They’re trying to prove who's best at staying ‘cool’   
and ‘below the radar’ at work-related functions.

Danny: I don’t follow.

Will: They want to prove who is the most articulate under   
the influence.

Danny: Under the influence? You mean like...a drinking   
game?

Will: Drinking challenge.

Danny: Yes, because that makes more sense.

Will: Their words, not mine.

Danny: So, explain this to me...

Will: Okay, well, basically, Josh and CJ — actually,   
Margaret and Donna too, as self-designated judges, from   
what I gather — are sitting at a back table in the main   
dining room, guzzling mass quantities of mimosa and   
reciting the Preamble at each other over and over again   
until one of them slurs. I think they were on round five   
when I left, both still going strong.

Danny: You’re kidding me.

Will: You’d think. But I’m actually very poor at   
successfully   
executing elaborate jokes.

Danny: They’re really doing this? At a Fourth of July   
dinner   
party hosted by the Bartletts?

Will: Surprised CJ would do something that stupid?

Danny: Surprised JOSH would do something that stupid.   
CJ is going to kick his ass.

Will: That’s what I said. But I think Donna put him up to   
it.   
Also, I’m pretty sure CJ offered to call him Chickenboy for   
the rest of the month if he backed out. Poor slob didn’t   
have a chance.

Danny: That’s fantastic. Thanks for the heads up, man —   
I   
hope you don’t mind, but I've got to check this out.

Will: I don’t blame you. That direction. Through those   
doors on the right, follow the hallway until you get to a   
large room with a bunch of tables, then listen for an   
unending stream of pithy insults and smack talk and   
you’ll   
find them pretty quick.

Danny: Thanks!

Kate: Was that Danny Concannon? Where’s he going?

Will: Dining room.

Kate: Oh, good! Are they serving food already?

Will: No.

Kate: Then why is Danny going to the dining room?

Will: He wants to watch CJ and Josh get drunk out of their   
minds and spend the evening verbally slapping each   
other   
with their wits.

Kate: Whoa, wait — where? I LOVE drunk CJ.

Will: I’m pretty sure you’re not alone in that.

Kate: Yes — yes, I heard some things — only a few and   
insignificant things — but some things nonetheless —   
about CJ and, um...Hey. Are you drunk?

Will: Decidedly not. Are you?

Kate: I would prefer not to answer that question. Accept,   
yes. Yes, I am. Decidedly so.

Will: Okay.

Kate: Can I get you a glass of something?

Will: Only if you don’t mind me not so much drinking it as   
swishing it around a lot and trying to look suave in the   
manner of a much shorter, less attractive, and   
considerably less robust Tom Selleck.

Kate: That's an interesting visual.

Will: You're welcome.

Kate: And all of that is supposed to mean...what? You’re   
not drinking?

Will: I drove myself tonight. Though I’m wondering now   
at   
which point my brain decided to stop functioning and   
allowed myself to think that was a good idea.

Kate: Hm.

Will: Indeed.

Kate: So, what if I promise by the end of the night to find   
us a nice cab with a surly driver and a spacious back seat   
in which all manner of questionable deeds might be   
accomplished between the time it takes the surly driver to   
drive us from this place to my place — Then would it be   
okay if I got you a drink?

Will: It is almost impossible to articulate how extremely   
okay that would be.

Kate: Groovy.

Will: Groovy?

Kate: And then some.

Will: I think I’m going out on a limb here by saying this,   
but I should probably expect some very interesting   
conversations with you tonight, shouldn’t I?

Kate: I think that would be a safe bet.

Will: Just checking.

Kate: Also, probably some sex, probably.

Will: Wow. You’re blunt when you’re inebriated.

Kate: Yeah.

Will: Groovy.

Kate: ...

Will: I didn’t say it right, did I?

Kate: Decidedly not.

Will: Okay.

Kate: I’m going to go get that drink now.

Will: Okay.

Kate: Okay.


	2. Ch.2

Donna: Round eleven, ladies and gentlemen! After a grueling thirty-seven minutes of…well, the Preamble, we are twenty-four mimosas in, and the contestants are starting to look just a few blinks shy of—

Josh: Oh my God.

Donna: What?

Josh: Words, Donna. Use them sparingly or you’re fired and Margaret gets to be announcer.

Margaret: Yes!

Donna: No! I wanna play…

Josh: Then announce, good woman, announce!

Donna: Okay! Round eleven. Contestants, consume your beverages—ALL of it, Josh, I mean it. I'm watching you. Glasses down—Okay…On your mark, get set, GO!

Josh and CJ: We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution—

CJ: —for the United States of America. Hah!

Josh: —for the United States of America. You know, it is not speed, my dearest Claudia, that reaps a victorious end—but rather, it is conviction. It is intonation, e-nun-ci-a-tion, style, bravado—

Margaret: Courage and integrity.

Josh: Courage and integ—What? No.

CJ: Really?

Margaret: What?

CJ: Margaret, we are sitting here, two rooms away from our employer, the leader of the free world, getting shamelessly shitfaced as we exploit and abuse the Constitution in a vain and selfish attempt to justify our own inflated egos.

Margaret: Okay, so…not. I just thought that sounded like something to include. You know, the sort of thing that would reap a victorious—

CJ: Margaret.

Margaret: Okay.

Donna: Contestants, you have two minutes remaining to recover.

CJ: Recover? I have nothing to recover, sweetheart. I am raring to go, sharp as a tack, slick as a whistle—she sells sea shells and all that whatever—You’re going down, Lyman.

Josh: Bring it on, big lady.

CJ: It’s already been brought, little man.

Donna: Okay, that’s enough recovering! Round twelve! Contestants, fill your glasses…Bottoms up! And ready, set, GO!

Josh and CJ: We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure—

CJ: —the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the United States of America.

Josh: —the blessings…of…

Donna: Josh?

Josh: No, no! That’ wasn’t a slur. I just forgot the words for a second. Liberty! But I’m back now, I’m cool. I am coooool under pressure.

CJ: Vodka.

Josh: Vodka! Under vodka. I am cool under the combined influence of vodka and vitamin-C enriched fruit juice. Where was I?

Margaret: Of liberty to—

Josh: To ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the United States of America! And a zippity doo-dah that’s how it’s done, boys and girls, my fellow countrymen, good night San Francisco!

CJ: Well said.

Josh: Knew I had it in me.

Donna: That was lovely, Josh, but one more memory slip-up and the judges might be forced to rule in CJ’s favor.

Josh: At which point I will be forced to strangle you with this tablecloth.

Margaret: Would I get to be announcer then?

Josh: Yes.

Donna: No! Except…the game would be over. So, okay.

Margaret: Damn.

CJ: Children! May we resume please? I’d like to strip this man of money and dignity before the night is over, if you don’t mind. At least before the hour’s out.

Margaret: It’s nine fifty-two.

CJ: You bet it is.

Josh: That’s it! Donna—count us off!

Donna: ...Please?

Josh: Are you kidding me?

Donna: I’m just saying. You could be a little nicer.

Josh: And you could be a little obedient-er.

CJ: Woah, there, Josh—I would lay off her a bit if I were you.

Josh: Whatever for?

CJ: Because someone is going to have to drag your limp, inarticulate, sorry excuse for a self home tonight, once I’m done mopping the floor with your ass, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me.

Josh: Is that a promise?

CJ: That's several promises all in one, mi amour.

Josh: And they're all true?

CJ: They certainly will be.

Josh: Well, then I would like to counter that blatant, malicious attack on my manhood by asking who you expect will be driving YOU home tonight, Princess—because we all know you aren’t driving yourself. Even sober, I think there's a city-wide ban forever barring you from the streets.

CJ: What’s that supposed to mean?

Josh: Precisely what you think it means.

CJ: I don’t think I think it means exactly what you think I think it means.

Josh: Don’t say things like that—really, ever—but especially not when I’m drunk.

CJ: You know what I mean by that, don’t you, Josh? Because presuming to think that I think in ways which are in any way correlated to the way that you think, or think you think, is ridiculous to the point of—

Josh: YOU. Are the WORST. DRIVER. EVER. End point! Jesus, you talk too much.

Danny: I’ll drink to that.

Josh: Hey, it’s Danny.

Danny: Except, wait—it looks like CJ’s already guzzled enough for the both of us.

CJ: Oh, perfect—and now Sparky the Wonder Schmuck is here to make unamusing jokes at my expense.

Danny: Unamusing? I don’t think a Masters from Berkley, a tight red dress, and legs up to here gives you the credentials to make up your own words, CJ.

CJ: What are you going on about?

Danny: I’m pretty sure—I mean, I’m only speaking, here, as a man who writes for a living—but I’m pretty sure that unamusing is not a word.

CJ: And I’m pretty sure—I mean, I’m only speaking, here, as a woman who eats men like you on toast for breakfast—but I’m pretty sure that you’re a jackass.

Donna: Ouch.

Margaret: Did anyone else think that sounded kind of dirty?

Josh: Well played, Claudia Jean.

Danny: Thanks for the support, everyone.

Josh: You bet.

CJ: Danny, what the hell are you doing here, anyway? Who invited you?

Danny: Leo.

CJ: Oh, Leo—LEO invited you, did he?

Danny: Yes he did.

CJ: Well then I…I can’t really do anything about that.

Danny: Nope.

CJ: That sucks.

Danny: Not really.

CJ: I think it does.

Josh: I’m actually not in any way bothered by it.

Danny: Excellent, Josh. I knew I could count on you for a triumphant return to my side.

Josh: Danny, old pal, I never left your side to begin with—especially not in the past five minutes, and let me tell you why: CJ…is mean. Also, she can’t drive.

Danny: No arguments there. And, frankly, I’m relieved that this is finally being addressed. Because Josh is right, CJ, you’re a terror behind the wheel.

Josh: I’ll drink to that.

CJ: Hey!

Josh: Except, I think, I’ve already had, maybe, all of the drinks in the   
world at this point. So NO. I will not drink to that.

CJ: Okay, for the record—I mean, OFF the record—

Danny: There is no record—

CJ: I WOULD JUST LIKE TO SAY—that I am a terrific driver. I am a terrific driver, and any moron with half a brain, who didn’t take lessons from Grandma and thinks the world is their school zone, can see that. Right, Donna?

Donna: I’ll say nothing.

CJ: Right, Margaret?

Margaret: I’ve honestly never been in the car with you. I mean, I’ve been in A car with you—Of course, we’ve all ridden in a whole manner of vehicles together at one point or another, traveling like we do—Buses and limousines mostly, which aren’t exactly CARS I suppose you could say, because there is certainly a clear distinction—and I don’t want you to think that I am unaware of that, because none of us, I think, have the proper licensing to drive any of those particular vehicles—But my point is, there is no ONE car which could have immediately been implied when I said THE car, so I apologize for the possible noun confusion. Except, hang on, that wasn’t my point, was it? Let me start over. I have never been in A car in which CJ was—

Donna: Okay, you know what? I’ll say something now. While I do appreciate that you’re a woman, CJ, a very smart and lovely person whom I always like to support—mostly because it makes that big vein on Josh’s forehead go berserk, and also because you’re usually right—I have to say that I have never so genuinely feared for my life as I did on that night last August when you drove me home from the State Department Dinner and we almost wiped out that sweet little Asian couple loading groceries into the back of their Minivan. Yes. I agree with Josh. And Danny. You’re a terrible driver.

CJ: I am NOT a terrible driver! I haven’t had an accident in ten, eleven years—Nine. Seven, at least.

Danny: What? CJ, you took out my taillight two weeks ago in the parking lot at Starbucks.

CJ: I think it’s funny you think that was an accident.

Danny: Excuse me?

Josh: Whoa.

CJ: Yeah, I said it.

Danny: Why? Because ON PURPOSE is so much better?

CJ: Yes. Which is why I can’t understand why you would bring it up. I think it justifies MY point.

Danny: How do you possibly, in all that is good and holy, figure that?

CJ: Because, unbeknownst to you, Mr. Hideously-Smug-Prius-Owning-Ponce, that hard won moment of victory involved quite an impressive feat of tricky maneuvering—BACKWARDS, I might add—over two curbs, across the median, around the light pole, between the man in the giant hotdog suit and his pal the walking Slurpie, straight past your goofy, dumbstruck face and into a dead-on bull’s-eye. BAM! Nothin’ but net.

Danny: Wow.

Donna: There was a man in a giant hotdog suit?

CJ: Prowling the sidewalks at noon on a Thursday. Go figure.

Donna: Why?

CJ: I’m assuming it was a sort of gimmick to boost sales.

Donna: What was he selling?

CJ: …VCR’s.

Donna: Really?

CJ: Nope.

Donna: Okay, hotdogs.

CJ: Can’t get anything past you, Donna.

Josh: Now who needs to lay off?

CJ: She’s not driving me home tonight.

Josh: Which brings us back, once again, to my previous question—which you still have not answered.

CJ: It’s called a taxi, Josh.  
Josh: And what makes you think that I, too, couldn’t get a taxi?

CJ: The fact that I don't think you fully understand what the term incoherent means.  
Josh: Well, I did get a C+ in fourth grade vocabulary, CJ, but you know, I think I’ve got the gist.

CJ: Good.

Donna: Are we going to return to this game at any time in the near future?

Josh: Absolutely.

CJ: Rack ‘em up.

Josh: You talk some big talk, Claudia Jean. But I think in one more round you’re going to fold like a cheap card table. Ask me why.

CJ: No. And you can keep dreaming, pal, because you’re already more incoherent than my good for nothing Kappa Alpha brother on bid night. Let’s get this over with.

Josh: You’re money’s mine, Cregg!

CJ: And what’s left of your rapidly deteriorating self-image is mine, Lyman.

Donna: Round—…thirteen? Did we do twelve?

Danny: By the way, Josh, I would just like to thank you for providing us with such a charmingly intoxicated press secretary. She’s a downright spectacle.

CJ: Thank you.

Josh: You are very welcome.

Danny: Seriously. Well done.

Josh: I would take a bow…but I think that if I bent over I would, you know, keep going. Also, I don’t know where my legs are, so I—can’ rlly standup. Whoa, what? No! No, that doesn’t count! I wasn’t—You were—No preamble—That doesn’t count!

CJ: Any chance you might go away, Daniel, and leave us to play our childish games of charismatic tomfoolery in peace?

Danny: Not a big change, no. Why? Do I distract you?

CJ: No. But I’ll tell you what else you don’t do.

Danny: What’s that?

CJ: Distract me.

Danny: Imagine that.

CJ: Furthermore, I think you’re only purpose here is to distract me—which won’t work, because, as I’ve said, if there’s one thing that you aren’t doing at this moment—it’s distracting me.

Danny: I can tell.

CJ: Of course, distraction can be a sort of relative term. Because there’s a difference between a good distraction and a bad distraction, and I think that’s an important distinction to note.

Danny: CJ, what are you doing?

CJ: Really, just, saying words at this point.

Danny: Which is a sad attempt at what, exactly?

CJ: That would be the much sought-after and rarely mastered art of stalling.

Danny: Stalling?

CJ: Stalling.

Danny: Why are you stalling?

CJ: Well, you see, Daniel, my birthday is coming up soon, and though I’m probably not in the best place to judge right now, I think I’ve been a pretty good girl this year—so I’m hoping that, on the off-chance God decides to reward me by granting me my super special secret birthday wish in advance by finally allowing something large and heavy to fall on your head, I am hoping that I can STALL long enough so that I might be able to stand in your immediate vicinity when that glorious miracle of divine justice takes place—because I do so dearly wish to see that take place, Danny. I do so dearly wish to see something large and heavy fall on your head. You get me? A piano, a chandelier, a stray cannonball time-warped from 1792—I’m not picky, my friend, I just want it to be large, and I just want it to be heavy. Does that answer your question, Nimrod?

Josh: Okay. I officially give up now.

Danny: You know almost none of that made any sense whatsoever.

CJ: Like I said—it’s an art.

Danny: Then congratulations. I think you’ve mastered it.

CJ: You bet your ass.

Margaret [quietly to Donna]: You know what she's doing now, don’t you?

Donna: What?

Margaret: Picturing his ass.

Donna: Definitely.

Margaret: I know I am.

Donna: I like his tie.

Margaret: I like his butt.

Donna: And those suspenders. Really don’t see a man wearing suspenders like that anymore.

Margaret: He’s got a cute butt.

Donna: The full beard was a good choice, too.

Margaret: Also, he’s got a cute butt.

Donna: That blazer fits him great around the shoulders.

Margaret: You’re no fun.

Donna: Why? Because I’m not talking about his butt?

Margaret: Yes.

Donna: So, then, what?

Margaret: So, then, what do you think about his butt?

Donna: I think it’s cute.

Margaret: That’s all I’m sayin’.

Josh: Hey! What are you two girlies whisper-er-ing about over there?

Donna: …

Margaret: The deficit.


	3. Ch. 3

Kate: So. Which one is that? What are you on now?

Will: This is still my first glass. You handed it to me about three minutes ago.

Kate: You know, and I remember that. I do.

Will: That’s good.

Kate: Only, I wonder…

Will: Yeah?

Kate: It’s just…I hate doing this when I’m the only one feeling, um, loopy.

Will: Hate doing what?

Kate: This.

Will: What?

Kate: This.

Will: What?

Kate: Talking.

Will: Ah.

Kate: You know what I mean?

Will: I think so. You feel uncomfortable talking to me while your verbal filter is compromised. So, in order to make the situation less awkward, you want me to drink myself into a stupor so that I, too, can feel, um, loopy.

Kate: Yes.

Will: Let me say first, that I hear your argument. I find it valid and I understand your motivation. But it’s, like, eight-thirty right now.

Kate: I don’t follow.

Will: It’s eight-thirty right now, dinner has yet to be served, and a party with the Bartletts is a party with the Bartletts—if you know what I mean.

Kate: Just assume from now on that I will only be understanding about sixty-eight percent of what you tell me.

Will: Duly noted.

Kate: So, then, what do you mean?

Will: I mean, a party with the Bartletts translates into a very long evening with the President. Who makes me feel flustered on a good day and sends me into crazy, internal, pants-wetting hysterics on a bad day. I don’t want to be all flushed and dopey if it turns out I have to sit anywhere near him and there exists even a minute possibility that he might throw a potentially significant or challenging question my way.

Kate: Wow. I say this, only because I am personally invested in your well-being. But you really need to drink.

Will: Not until dinner.

Kate: YES until dinner. Wait, that, sounded, slightly wrong.

Will: Okay, this conversation we’re having…Any chance we could stop having it?

Kate: Oh, absolutely. I mean, I thought you were excited about seeing me in your favorite white button-down and a sexy pair of stilettos after the party; but if you want to spend the night sober and alone in your apartment, clinging to your Dexter Gordon album as you cry into the couch cushions, that’s completely your call. We can stop having this conversation any time you want.

Will: You are being so unfair right now, it physically hurts me.

Kate: Why? Because I made a crack about your Dexter Gordon album, or because I made a crack about you wallowing alone in your pathetic, horny misery WITH your Dexter Gordon album? Or is it because I’m using sex as manipulation?

Will: It’s kind of a little bit of all of those things. But mostly it’s the Dexter Gordon album. That was petty and cruel.

Kate: I knew it would bother you.

Will: The man’s a genius.

Kate: And jazz is lame.

Will: Which I am determined to change your mind about.

Kate: Why do you care if—

Will: Because! You’re wrong!

Kate: Look at you. Flustered. I love it when you get all worked up over something no one else finds remotely interesting. Tres adorable, mon ami.

Will: That was…lovely French, and you are cute as a button, but that’s not the point.

Kate: There’s a point?

Will: I…Wait, there isn’t a point?

Kate: Only if you’re making one up right now. Because, I don’t know, I thought we were just pre-gaming for tonight. Getting each other all hot and bothered. You know. Sex is spicier that way—or so I’ve heard. Not sure where…

Will: Well, in that case—

Kate: In that case.

Will: I have no idea what point I was trying to make, bag everything I just said, and I expect to see you, post party, in my apartment, dancing around in my favorite white button-down and a pair of sexy stilettos.

Kate: In…MY apartment.

Will: Excuse me?

Kate: I thought we decided we were going to MY apartment.

Will: So we did.

Kate: But the shirt—

Will: Is at my apartment.

Kate: This is a problem.

Will: Yes, it is.

Kate: No, it's not.

Will: No, it’s not. We can handle this.

Kate: Maybe we could swing by your place on the way.

Will: We could do that.

Kate: Except, I kind of wanted to clean up a little before you came over. That sounds—nuts, I’m sure, but I only moved in a few weeks ago and the place is deborable…de—that’s a hard word to say. Deplorable.

Will: That’s nice of you. But, really, I know we make a lot of jokes about my somewhat lacking outward displays of manliness—however, despite popular opinion, I am, in fact, a man, Kate. And as such, as a man, a man who has not stopped thinking about your long bare legs the entire way through this conversation, I will, in no way, care what state your room is in—as long as I’m in it, and you’re in it, and that shirt is in it—and as long as you don’t make any more cracks about my Dexter Gordon album.

Kate: Still can’t let that go, can you?

Will: Nope.

Kate: But I’m serious about the cleaning thing. I mean, that was sweet what you just said—officially offensive and chauvinistic—but, still, sweet. It’s—you see…I’m really not crazy about people seeing all my crap lying around. Especially when there’s a possibility of us actually lying on the crap. Well, not so much lying as rolling around half-dressed and—

Will: What exactly are you worried about?

Kate: I’m not sure. Stray office supplies mostly. Pencils, pens, staples…staple removers—

Will: Ah. Yes. I see your point.

Kate: Hey, you were right! There IS a point.

Will: Knew it was in there somewhere.

Kate: So, what’s the plan?

Will: Plan? Yes. Plan. That sounds like a good thing to have.

Kate: Slightly somewhat more necessary in a bunker outside Kazakhstan. But, hey, this is a good cause, and there’s no mission too small for good, solid, proper, military-style strategery.

Will: Just like my mom used to say.

Kate: Mine too!

Will: I was joking.

Kate: I wasn’t.

Will: Okay, getting back to the plan for a moment; wouldn’t it be easier if we just went to my place?

Kate: No.

Will: Why?

Kate: We can’t go to your place.

Will: Why not?

Kate: Because I forgot to feed my gerbil yesterday, and two nights in a row borders on irresponsible.

Will: You have a gerbil?

Kate: I have a gerbil.

Will: You have a gerbil?

Kate: I have a…Oh. OH! I wasn’t going to tell you that until after appetizers on our fifth date at Café MoZU. Well, the plan’s all shot to hell now.

Will: You had a—wait, what plan? You had a plan?

Kate: I like plans, Will. My life is full of plans. Is that going to be a problem for you? Because if it is, PLEASE do the intelligent thing and tell me now, so that I don’t have to spend another week watching Golden Girls reruns on the floor next to my bed, eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and wondering why I so thoroughly and effectively repulse men.

Will: You do not repulse—

Kate: For the love of GOD are you going to finish that drink?!

Will: Not if you keep shouting at me. And, I have to say, that was a genuinely pathetic attempt at changing the subject.

Kate: …

Will: What? What’s that look for?

Kate: How about…Hm. How about…Well, yeah. How about this, smarty man. How about if I let you carry my underwear around in your pocket for the rest of the evening?

Will: YOUR…WHAT? I—Your…

Kate: Yes. My…

Will: In my pocket?

Kate: Yes. Preferably somewhere out of sight, please.

Will: Your…

Kate: Yes. My…

Will: …

Kate: …

Will: How, um, would that, um, work…exactly?

Kate: Oh, I’d just slip into the bathroom for a few seconds. You’d meet me outside the door with your back turned. I’d put it straight into your pocket. Viola.

Will: Okay, wait, is this a serious offer?

Kate: It is. It—well, only if you are visibly inebriated within the next ten minutes.

Will: In that case, point me to the drink table! I’m double-fisting it.

Kate: Atta boy.

Will: I knew you’d crack me.

Kate: That’s good. I knew I would too.


End file.
